


lilacs are in bloom

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 14:39:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If his shame was great at dreaming about her, it's nothing next to his shame at watching her, hovering behind a tree and peering through leaves and branches like someone depraved. He cannot quite see her fully from his angle, the creamy stretch of her thigh obscures her hand from his view, but he can see it moving, can see the teeth she sinks into her lower lip, the free hand that clutches the rock ledge beneath her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lilacs are in bloom

It is truly unfair.

First there had just been the sight of her, more beautiful than Jon had expected – and he'd expected her to have become very beautiful indeed – standing in almost the same spot where he saw her last, though then her eyes had slid past him almost guiltily and she'd offered him only the most cursory goodbye all while stealing nervous glances at the door to the keep, as if her lady mother were about to storm out and chase her away from him. This time, her eyes had darted over every bit of his face as if to make an inventory, as if to confirm that he was real, and it had so mirrored his own feelings upon seeing her that it had robbed his words, making him stammer in shock. It was nothing compared to the shock he felt when she launched herself into his arms as if propelled by a catapult, though, saying, "Jon, oh _Jon_." He'd not thought she wanted him to die, but he hadn't realized she'd so very desperately wanted him to live.

Then there had been her scent, the soft smell of lilacs that trailed in her wake and lingered wherever she'd been, until Jon could swear he smelled it everywhere: in the walls, on his clothes, on Ghost's fur where she'd scratched his sides and pushed her face into his ruff. He even smells it in his dreams, his disappointment when he wakes to find himself alone almost as great at his shame at how the memory of dream-Sansa sinking onto his cock and riding him with sweet abandon keeps him hard half the morning.

And then it's her touches. She'd never been the type for casual contact before, at least not with him, always keeping herself properly self-contained when she counseled him on how to speak with ladies or when he tried to interpret Arya's moods for her. But now she touches him as if it's the most natural thing in the world, hardly worth a conscious thought. Her hand brushes the back of his when she says something she thinks important. She takes his arm when they walk through the gardens, her hand tucked in the crook of his elbow and her soft breast pressing maddeningly against him. Sometimes she truly forgets herself and brushes the fall of his hair from his brow where it constantly threatens to obscure his vision, no matter how long or short he keeps it. Once she'd cupped his cheek, looked at him so fondly it made his heart ache, and then brushed a thumb over his lower lip to make his cock ache to match.

All of those things had been bad enough – they'd been _torment_ enough – but stumbling upon her at the hot springs with her feet in the water, her knees slightly spread, a flush on her cheeks and a hand between her thighs...well, that's just a new sort of bad.

He should turn around and leave, immediately, that much he knows. At the very least, he should call out, thrash about in the underbrush to alert her of his approach so she can make herself decent. He does neither. If his shame was great at dreaming about her, it's nothing next to his shame at watching her, hovering behind a tree and peering through leaves and branches like someone depraved. He cannot quite see her fully from his angle, the creamy stretch of her thigh obscures her hand from his view, but he can see it moving, can see the teeth she sinks into her lower lip, the free hand that clutches the rock ledge beneath her. Then she shifts, widens her knees, and he can see her hand, can see it working over the wet and almost transparent barrier of her small clothes, and he's so hard he can barely see straight. Gods, if only he could replace her hand with his own, or better, replace it with his mouth, she would be sweet, so sweet, the sweetest thing he would ever taste.

The moan slips from his lips, his control pushed past the point of breaking at the thought of her hot, sweet cunt under his mouth, at the taste of her pleasure coating his tongue like honey. She freezes, her knees instinctively snapping together as if bound by a spring, her eyes darting wild about her. Jon struggles for control, pressing his face to the rough bark of the tree until he can walk, then melts away without a sound, glad at least for his time with the Wildlings teaching him silence. He trudges back to the keep, knowing he should hate himself for watching her. But all he can truly hate himself for is making her stop.


End file.
